If Wishes Were Horses
by greysnyper
Summary: There is no summary. This entire endeavor came about through a need to write about Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade riding a horse. You're welcome.


_This is dedicated to Kerlyssa for the constructive criticism I received regarding a previous Lestrade story. And for suggesting something to do with Lestrade on a horse. I hope I've done better here and I hope it's not too terribly long or done out of character. This is just sort of what happened and I was not expecting ten thousand plus words to come of it._

_This is also dedicated to Katherine. Nobody I work with should suggest that Lestrade smells of Old Spice while I'm at work. Katherine didn't get that memo._

_Finally, credit goes to Erika for proofreading this at request in one afternoon and for being just as critical as I'd feared. Thank you so much for putting in the time._

* * *

The tall man with his hands stuffed deep in his black, trailing coat drawls, "Where would you be without me?"

Beside Lestrade, Donovan is almost vibrating with fury. They are all painted in the red glow of the sun, shining orange off of brick walls. The crime-scene at sundown. The vivid colour makes the police flashers useless, though the noise continues. The SWAT teams are packing it in and the paramedics are done checking the suspects in the squad cars. All of the missing kids are safe and it shouldn't matter how close Scotland Yard had been to nailing the location down, or how much faster Sherlock Holmes had brought the case to a close.

All of the kids are safe, Lestrade tells himself as he takes Donovan's shoulder and directs her away from punching their consulting detective.

"He's insufferable," she hisses at his ear, not caring if Sherlock sees the conversation despite the shelter of their retreating backs. There is no shelter, Lestrade reminds himself. Sherlock sees everything. God, they hadn't even had the benefit of John Watson to redirect Sherlock Holmes' antics these last few days. It certainly makes a difference.

"We'll talk at the station," Lestrade murmurs, aware that it will be Donovan shouting and whinging the same complaints (and they're valid, many of them) with Lestrade nodding and agreeing. Then ending with both knowing that nothing will change from it.

He had needed this one. The newly purchased box of nicotine patches in his car is proof of that. Lestrade knows that his team would have worked it out, and the next day would have seen them knocking down those very doors over there. But all of the victims are safe _now _and that's an improvement over not knowing how much could have gone wrong by tomorrow. Lestrade is a father, he can respect that.

They cross a line from golden pavement to covered blue shadow, and Lestrade no longer has to squint at the sun. If he turns, Sherlock Holmes will be like an idol, distinct in the last of the dying light while the two inspectors watch from the shade.

When a woman peels away from an ambulance, approaching the pair to pour grateful thanks on the detectives, inspiration leads Lestrade to point to her the solitary form of Sherlock Holmes. "That man right there, he's the detective who figured it out," says Lestrade. "I think he deserves your praises more than us."

Donovan is keen on picking up Lestrade's humble intentions. "It's sad, since nobody on the force seems to think to thank him."

The woman nods at them, on a mission now. There are holes in their set-up, but an emotionally wrenched around mother is not likely to notice them. Lestrade doesn't even feel a tiny bit guilty when she departs to give Sherlock his due.

Donovan is in a better mood as they reach the safety of the car. Sherlock will obviously find a means to 'thank' them when every one of the parents decide to show their gratitude now. Phone-trees are a terrifyingly effective weapon sometimes. Lestrade tries to picture 221B full of children's drawings or fruit-baskets from reoccurring grandparent-callers.

"Okay, that was worth some of the trouble the Freak put us through," Donovan says. If she's going to start giggling, it's just the come-down from the many days of a stressful case.

"Pick your battles, detective," Lestrade coaches, buckling himself in and starting the cruiser.

"We would have had 'em," Donovan contests. Her murmur kills the mood.

Lestrade does not push by asking _when _they would have "had 'em." He takes the time to remind his sergeant about the Perivale Park homicide; the Victoria Embankment attacks; and the arrest of Megan Lauper after the newborn abduction and how Sally herself had recovered the kid. Lestrade has an effective team, and they certainly would have "had 'em." But sometimes a day late is too late.

"_Where would you be without me?" _The words are uninvited to Greg's memory, and the taunt has not weakened with time.

It's probably not that healthy, altering between frustration, anxiety, relief, pride, and then loss of face in a matter of mere hours. Lestrade is feeling due for a vacation. The whole force could use a vacation and not just from the ugly parts of the job.

He thinks of the self-certain figure standing golden at the crime scene.

"I think I'm going to take some time off," Lestrade sighs.

There's no energy left to tighten his hands on the steering wheel. He'll leave the anger to his sergeant as she seems the most willing to carry it on. Instead, Lestrade imagines the consulting detective trapped in a circle of grateful parents and family members with no army doctor to save him. It helps.

"You should," Donovan states. "I've got tickets that'll take you across the pond. Won 'em from a fundraiser some time back."

Lestrade snorts at the offer. "Shouldn't you use them? Those would take you as far from Sherlock as you'd like."

"If only," the sergeant groans. "But me, I hate planes. You can buy 'em off me. Go somewhere fun."

Lestrade mulls the thought over. It's been years since he's been to the States. Vivian could join him...

Lestrade's phone chimes, and he will bet ten quid that it's Sherlock. There'll be time enough on the way back to the station to come up with a reply regarding the officers of the Yard passing on credit where it's due.

His cell goes off four more times before he looks to see that his deduction is correct.

"What the hell," Lestrade concedes. "Overseas may not be far enough away."

Donovan snorts. If the mood is once more lifted, Lestrade believes it is a fleeting respite.

* * *

The pit of Greg's stomach drops out the moment he looks at his phone. It is not unlike the sensation from a plane landing, though Greg and Vivian are on solid ground now in the bustling organism that is John F. Kennedy International Airport.

They'd only been airborne for eight hours. There are forty-seven notifications.

He had turned it on after disembarking in case one of the kids had sent a message. Every time he travels, Greg is certain he's left something behind that should have been in his suitcase. There's no reason for either of the kids to send forty-seven texts if they had noticed his sunglasses on the table.

He's about to check one at random for some clue when the device vibrates in his hand.

_Ignoring me won't solve the problem. SH_

It takes a second before Greg can place the initials. Only another second more before he acclimates to the idea of Sherlock Holmes sending him forty-plus messages. Greg hadn't really taken the time to inform the consulting detective of his plans. And why should he, the man asks himself. It's not like they're close friends.

Still, Greg has a moment where he suspects that this could be that thing that he has forgotten to do. It may cost Greg. If any particular cases arise that would intrigue the consulting detective, he'd be left to deal with someone else from the Yard and most likely burn his bridges and Greg will hear about it from both Sherlock and from his fellow officers upon his return, not that he wants to think of that now. He perhaps owes Sherlock the courtesy of a warning, but the plans had been finalized in a whirlwind of unexpected speed. Vivian had taken to the idea of a trip with more zeal than Greg could have hoped for, and she had had time booked-off almost immediately. His own request for vacation had been pushed through like a miracle, which just does not happen these days at New Scotland Yard. Everything had fallen into place beautifully and nine days after articulating the thought with Sally, here he stood on American soil.

Greg picks out a message several down from the most recent one.

_Can leave keys at Bart's with Molly. I'll need them for seven. SH_

Cryptic, Greg clucks. The message before reads: _If you can't fetch it from evidence, I can with an escort. SH_

A small picture emerges from some of the earlier texts of Sherlock taking on a case and needing to prove or disprove an alibi. Certainly by now he has harassed someone else with access to the specified items in lock-up, or moved on to other avenues. God knows nothing stops Sherlock from getting into the morgue, so why not evidence?

Greg predicts that he _will _be hearing from his coworkers about it. Perhaps he should have warned _them_.

"Greg," Vivian calls from the airline counter. She's under a massive screen showing gates and flight numbers and when they flicker into new numbers, her hair glows. "We'll miss the transfer."

The phone lights up in his hand once more as he takes his boarding pass from her.

_Tell DI Hopkins that he's grossly misinformed about Brakenstall's murder. It's embarrassing to watch. SH _

Greg falls into step with Vivian, finding the airport crowd similar to the busy tangle that is the London subway. It's easy to send off a quick _piss off i'm on vacation_ before he shuts his mobile down and wishes it were the thing he forgot at home.

* * *

Greg doesn't turn his phone on when he disembarks a second time, now in Wyoming. There is a very London-like rain pouring outside of the airport and Vivian holds his hand as they stroll wearily to the shuttle that will take them to their hotel.

The drive is short but sees the grey drizzle seep into an inky black night. They've spent the whole day in transit. "Ugh, I'm taking a bath," Vivian states as they haul their bags from the shuttle.

Greg doesn't ask if that bath will include him. Perhaps he could be more convincing if he poses the question in an open shirt. He's worn in, though, and the thought of success or failure doesn't bother him like it would have a few years ago. The check-in is yet one more queue to overcome.

It is a nice hotel. There are marble stallions decorating the corners and their room has a window that promises to overlook a barren realm so unlike that of home. By morning, they will have an alien landscape to look forward to.

Vivian keeps her promise to herself and dumps her baggage at the door to the toilet with the jacuzzi tub. Greg pulls his bag to the bed and once more works up the gusto to convince her to share the bath when the room phone rings.

He frowns at the device as it goes off again.

"Is that room service?" Vivian calls from the jacuzzi. Or perhaps that's what she says over the water running and the telephone.

Greg picks up the receiver. "Yeah?"

There is a pause, a muffled sound of something shifting, and then, "Hello?"

It's a familiar voice. Though he recognizes the English accent, Greg cannot easily place it in this context. "Who's this?"

"Greg? Sorry, inspector?" The other voice sounds just as confused as Greg. It's owner sounds fatigued. The identifying name clicks for the vacationing detective inspector.

He says, "John? John Watson? How did you get this number?"

"I'm terribly sorry. One moment, please," John answers before covering his end. It's not enough to conceal John's shout. "Why do you have me calling Lestrade at three in the morning?"

Something is spoken back in response and then John returns. "Greg, I'm going to hand the phone to Sherlock and then I'm going to strangle him with violin strings. Count this as my confession, okay?"

The voice on the other side is thin on patience.

"I'm on vacation," Greg offers. "It won't be me arresting you."

"Oh good, that'll buy me some time."

Greg catches his mouth quirking despite himself.

"Anywhere nice?" John continues.

"I'm in Wyoming with Vivian. It's raining. Please tell me it's raining there."

John's response is cut off by the phone changing hands. It did not sound as if the transition had been done willingly.

"Detective inspector," greets Sherlock. "You weren't returning my texts."

Whatever amusement he's gained from conversing with John slips away with remarkable speed. Greg holds his breath to either calm himself, or to pick up the inevitable sound of violin strings becoming a murder weapon.

"Have you any idea how impossible it is to work with your team? I had to pick the lock to the evidence room to prove a man innocent of three felonies."

Greg squeezes his eyes shut. "Sherlock, you shouldn't be telling me about how you break into the Yard..." Is that a felony? It's probably a felony.

"Ugh," moans the consulting detective. "It was easy. The security there is deplorable."

"I don't care, Sherlock. I'm on vacation."

"Yes," Sherlock interrupts. "In the United States. And the reason I had John call you was to see if you could pick up a few things."

Greg is staring at a point on the wall as if it could magically produce a piece of sanity for him to have, and to keep, and to never lose. "You want me to pick up a few things?"

"Yes, do keep up. Obviously I'll reimburse any costs you incur."

"How did you even get this number?"

There is a scoff over the line. "Please, that was child's play. After you told me to piss off, I followed the logical line of inquiries and discovered that you had purchased from Donovan the tickets she had won last month. She mentioned it enough times at Patemoster Square and yet she hates flying so it would be obvious that she'd hold onto them because of their value, but try to get rid of them at the next ready opportunity. That opportunity was you. And with your interest in rekindling the relationship with your estranged wife you-"

It is surreal, listening to Sherlock roll through his conclusions while he is more than 4500 miles away and the last person Greg should be hearing in America. Greg's curiosity at Sherlock's methods are genuine, though it evaporates immediately with the mention of Vivian. She's not his estranged wife. They're just having...difficulties.

Sherlock is still talking, something about horses and pamphlets left on the dash of his cruiser or desk and international transfers or somesuch. And he doesn't get it. Sherlock Holmes does not get it at all. Greg stops listening. Instead, he interrupts, "Sherlock. Sherlock, no. No, I've had it. I'm on vacation. Piss off means piss off. I'm hanging up now."

There's a marked silence at the threat-Sherlock gone quiet. And then, in case Sherlock does start to say something and before Greg does change his mind, he puts the telephone onto the cradle with more force than is necessary. It is still less force than what would make him feel better.

Greg stares at it, and then picks up the receiver and leaves it off of the hook. When the fussing dialtone gets annoying, he hangs it back up and then unplugs the device. That's a little more reasonable.

"What was that about?" calls Vivian.

"Nothing," Greg returns. "Just...just work."

If Vivian wants to know how "just work" got the number to their room, she doesn't ask. And Greg supposes that he, too, will never know just how Sherlock had done it.

'_WRONG!_' floats the little word, come from any number of Greg's recollections of Sherlock and his parlour tricks.

Greg pulls his shirt and trousers off, and then falls into the bed feeling older than his age. He'll try for intimacy tomorrow, when Sherlock's observations regarding Greg's intentions towards his wife aren't so raw.

* * *

Greg wakes first and climbs out of his side of the bed to go stare out of the window. Wyoming stares back, an empty void that doesn't believe in cluttered cities or even the green patchwork hills of his childhood. There's just so much space. The coffee supplied in the hotel room is ridiculously good for hotel coffee. Greg shares because he's married and that means one of his vows had been to share good coffee.

We're not estranged, he reasserts when Vivian mumbles awake at the smell.

They enjoy a lazy breakfast and then Greg strolls the few blocks through Casper to the car rental outlet. He's twirling the keys around his finger when he reenters the lobby and the bellman waves him over.

"Mr. Lestrade, I've got a message from a Sherlock Holmes?"

Greg stops twirling the keys. He waits until the bellman starts to find the hesitation awkward, before saying, "Alright. Lay it on me."

"Uh, just to contact him before you get to Lander, Sir."

"Lander?" Greg repeats. Lander, Wyoming. Greg and Vivian are driving through there on their way to the ranch he's booked. "That all?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Thank you," Greg mutters. He rubs his eyes and tries to understand why Sherlock needs Greg without having to follow through with asking. Sherlock had had John phone the hotel Lestrade had booked, and at three in the morning. No small wonder that John had been irritated. And still, Sherlock keeps trying.

Pick up your own damn American things, Greg huffs. It's called the internet.

He doesn't think of using the telephone when he gets back to the room, though he does reconnect it out of courtesy. Greg half expects the line to ignite into sound the moment he does, but it stays mercifully dead. Vivian has re-packed his bags while he had been out.

"You didn't bring a lot," she observes.

"We're roughing it," he answers with a cheeky grin. "I didn't shave this morning to kick off the occassion."

She smirks at him and says, "You fox." She hasn't called him that in a long time. "You're going to need a cowboy hat."

"We'll pick one up in Lander."

* * *

Vivian teases him about driving on an American highway. Does he know the proper side of the road to be on?

"The right side," he grins. "I always drive on the right side."

They listen to country music because it's awful and expected. They find a folk station when it gets too bad. The rain from the night before leaves glassy puddles that reflect a hazy sky. The blue is tinged with a sheet of grey that wants to mimic the flat, arid land surrounding them. There doesn't seem to be more rain promised, and yet the sun just doesn't break through. Greg drives them on a lonely highway within a sea of grassland and desert and surprise canyons. Cattle graze in patches, and trees no longer exist. Sometimes a rock shelf surprises them on one side of the road, and then just as quickly they return to bleak plain. There are mountains growing far too slowly ahead of them. In a few places the modern day prevails in the form of wind turbines and oil rigs, though their lorn shapes only add to the eeriness of the countryside.

The drive is several hours and Greg loves it. He had grown up on adventure stories-old ones set in this very place, with cowboys, indians and trailblazers eking out a future in an inhospitable land. There is a wildness here that doesn't exist back home. Even the brutal corners of underground London fail to evoke the sense of unbridled intensity that Greg has always known existed here in the realm of his childhood stories. The city is sharp and infected while the foot lands are a persistent, dull and lonesome realm. Both could kill a man, but there is more romance with failing to survive out here.

And more triumph in overcoming it.

Greg is not a city boy. He had helped keep horses in his adolescent years, and Vivian's equestrian days had given them something to share in common. Neither had seen wild horses in person, before. This is certainly the place to finally put that dream to rest.

"Oh, buzzards!" Vivian shouts, tapping at the window. "Slow down, I want a picture."

Greg complies, fighting the urge to turn his phone back on for the camera, too. He has to laugh at the fact that despite his appreciation for this environ, they are both still tourists.

* * *

It is midday when they reach Lander. Greg's in a good mood and Vivian is insistent on getting to a toilet, eating, and then finding a proper hat for her husband-in that order. The thought of contacting London is dismissed easily. If Greg owes anyone his time, it's his wife. She eats a cheeseburger that's slightly bigger than Greg's burger and then makes him try on several cowboy hats. Greg butchers an impression of Clint Eastwood and the shopkeeper and his wife try their hand at a few British sayings that they have never encountered before.

Greg knocks his new cowboy hat off when he steps into the rental car. Vivian snorts her Diet Coke out of her nose. She has to return to the toilet she had first used to clean her blouse up. It's the best afternoon Greg remembers having in a long time.

The drive to the ranch requires the use of the GPS, and still the time flies after the first stretch. The road is much more interesting as it grows hilly, rounding an actual mountain. Their host, a William Leech, greets them at his gate. His family runs a horse riding tour across the Wyoming countryside and it comes highly recommended by Vivian's parents. They shake hands all around and pull their bags from the car.

"We're waiting for some gals from Florida," William says, helping Vivian with her kit. "I also got a message not an hour ago for you, Greg."

Vivian raises her brows at the mention and Greg sighs. He's in the middle of nowhere and Sherlock is still a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

Turning on his phone, Greg is surprised after it boots up to find that he has good reception. There goes that excuse for a potential wall of silence. There are now seventy-four unread messages. He looks at the only one from a number that is not Sherlock's.

_Greg, its John. Sherlock's incredibly bored. Sorry in adv for anything. Good luck._

"You promised me a homicide," Greg exhales, wondering if somewhere in London Sherlock is saying the same thing.

He dials in the number for Sherlock Holmes, and then redials it as a collect call. In his head, Greg's math puts London time at just after twenty-two hundred hours.

It rings as Greg paces in the wood panelled sitting room of the Leech's bed and breakfast. It's cozy, with dark brown tones and a fireplace in sight just around the corner. A bearskin rug dominates the floor and there are rocking chairs and a sofa that looks a million years old. It also looks comfortable. Vivian is somewhere, likely meeting with Mrs. Leech.

He's about to give up when the dial tone is finally replaced with an answer. "Lestrade, you were supposed to contact me _before _Lander."

"I'm not supposed to do anything," Greg snaps. "Sherlock, this better be important."

"It's very important," argues Sherlock. "It involves a murder, detective."

Greg doesn't feel like biting that hook. "We'll soon be involved in _your _murder if you don't start acknowledging that this is my holiday, Sherlock. That means no crime. No work. No London. Nothing."

"Not London, Lestrade. Lander. There's been a murder in Lander and I've solved it."

Greg's free hand unconsciously snakes up to touch the brim of the hat he now wears from the town. "Sherlock, there's unsolved murders everywhere. It's not my job to go around solving everything all of the time."

"You don't need to solve this one," reasons the consulting detective. "I've done that part already. I know who the killer is. I know where the killer is. I can prove everything. You just need to convince the Chief of the Lander Police Department to listen to me."

"How did you even come across this?" Greg asks. "Where do these ideas come from? It can't be a recent murder, can it?"

"Three years, a cold case. I looked it up," Sherlock states. If there were a way to hear someone's eyes rolling, Greg would now know the sound. He reminds himself that John had warned him of Sherlock's boredom. No John in the background could mean that the army doctor had somehow managed his survival skills to escape the brunt of Sherlock's habits. What did it say about Greg that he is halfway around the world and not himself capable of escaping this?

Sherlock continues, saying, "I narrowed down the killer and his motives and modus operandi using news articles from various websites. I am also eighty-percent certain I can pinpoint the dumping ground for the victim's missing effects which were missing from the body."

Greg shakes his head vehemently. "I am not driving another hour back to town just to harass some local men and women of the law about not doing their job properly, Sherlock."

"You wouldn't have needed to drive back to town if you had called me before reaching and leaving Lander. Need I remind you that a killer is walking free not twenty miles from you and your wife, while a family goes without justice?"

Sherlock is not saying this out of a need for a kinder, better and more moral world, or for the victim's families. Greg recognizes the argument for the manipulative tactic that it is. Still, it's a good point and very well played with the mention of a killer's closeness to Greg's wife. There's no way he's walking out of this and onto the next stage of his holiday without having some guilt on his conscious. He can't even promise to follow this up after the tour as a way to escape his own self-reproach.

"You're really asking me, a British tourist, to walk into a police station..." It's a feeble argument and Greg knows it.

"Please, you're well known around New Scotland Yard and a quick internet search on some of your more successfully handled investigations will prove you respectable and worth hearing."

It almost sounds like a compliment. Greg silently includes that he's also not an arse and can relate to other cops.

He reaches up and tugs his hat down, more cover for his eyes. Greg knows he's already bought himself in. "If you can convince me in three minutes of all of the facts so that I believe you, your evidence and everything, as if I were a stranger, I'll go. But I have to be convinced, Sherlock. And after that, you stop. You don't call. You don't leave messages. You leave it be. Can you do that? Three minutes, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes does it in one.

* * *

How to convince Vivian is the first obstacle. She gives him a look that he knows far too well and never had liked. And then she says, "It's your vacation too. If you want to drive back to Lander, I won't stop you."

She won't stop him, but she will hold it against him. That he's stopping a murderer from getting away with the crime holds little weight-seems even frivolous. Greg wants to drag his finger across the brim of his hat and remind her that he's bringing in an outlaw. Or would that be incredibly lame?

The chance for that passes when she says, "I'm going to introduce myself to the horses."

She had been excited about meeting their mounts, and Greg had imagined them doing that together. He acquiesces and takes the phrase for what it really is-his exit.

It is dimmer on the drive back to Lander. Greg puts on his headlights. He turns off the radio and thinks of very little. The trip becomes a game of trying to remember landmarks from their drive up. There's a sign that's rusted, and an old cutout of a devil by an ill-used house. A prairie dog skitters and freezes in the road and Greg doesn't think he hits it. The few dead rodents still count in the game-some of them still recognizable. He doesn't think of bodies left lying in the desert. He drives faster than he should but not too fast to be pulled over if there are cops on this road. If he hits a larger animal in the drawing evening, he doesn't know what will happen.

Vivian would take it as the ultimate sign that she had been right. Would Sherlock even register that it could somehow be his fault? Greg goes for Clint Eastwood logic-don't hit a larger animal. He doesn't.

The police department isn't hard to find. Greg recognizes from his own precinct that it's the quiet part of the evening where it's far too early for night trouble. A shift change will likely happen soon and the day officers are putting their paperwork to rest. He feels like a heel for bringing in the bomb that is Sherlock Holmes to some unfortunate officer's desk.

He's liaisoned for Sherlock Holmes before. Greg says a prayer of thanks when the first person who greets him turns out to be a Native American woman with a stereotype of eternal patience. He especially appreciates the box of nicotine patches on her desk with a handmade sticky-note on them: '_in case of emergencies_.'

Her name is Bretta Freefall and she is a Detective Sergeant. She agrees to humour Greg and his over-the-phone "consulting detective" with the potential of resolving an old case. Sherlock quickly establishes for himself a reluctant convert and only insults her about three times. Greg recognizes Sherlock's attempt at restraint and admires the woman for her ability to sidestep the insults and get to serious work when she understands that a "catch-a-bad-guy-for-free" card has unexpectedly been dropped into her lap.

Greg says little during the exchange, apparently having done enough by introducing his mad consulting detective to the detective sergeant. Greg suspects that Sherlock's forgotten that he is even present. Freefall still meets his eye often enough to silently include Greg in the conversation, perhaps even inviting him along to the chase. He takes care to not involve himself further, though, thinking of Vivian spending her time without him. Already, a few officers have been pulled to follow through with the imminent arrest. They won't need Greg's help and he truly has no jurisdiction here.

Sherlock is brilliant. Even though Greg has had Sherlock lay out the events and his methods back at the Leech home, it's different to witness the process through the eyes of detective sergeant Freefall. Sherlock's use of the victim and the killer's social media pages-all within public access, are unconventionally clever. Sherlock talks about evidence found without having seen it or any of the police paperwork. This all comes from having read the town's news articles and connecting it to a vague statement quoted by a rancher from the day before the crime. Freefall confirms every claim as correct and she and Greg start to see clearly how the murder had been done and how the killer inadvertently profited by it. The profile of the killer compliments certain behaviours that explain the queer layout of the scene, and if the man is introduced to certain evidence in a particular context, he is likely to slip up with his three-year-old alibi and dig himself into a hole.

Freefall goes through the familiar stages of confusion, disbelief, reassessment and then enlightenment with more grace than most cops do when they first encounter Sherlock Holmes. She catches Greg's eye throughout the dissemination. The question is there sometimes in her raised brow. Why would Sherlock solve _this_, all the way from London?

She's sharp enough to read into the consulting detective's personality to understand it's not charity or good will driving Sherlock Holmes. Greg meets her gaze each time and shrugs.

An hour later both Freefall and Holmes are satisfied with the arrangements made.

With Freefall's telephone in hand, Greg thanks Sherlock and then forces a promise once more to piss off, and there is begrudging reluctance when Sherlock accepts. The reluctance is not what Greg had been expecting to hear. Greg has done everything that Sherlock has asked and cannot imagine what more he could be expected to give to make the other detective happy. There should be arrogance and not resignation on the other side of the phone call.

_What would you do without me? _It is strange that it goes unsaid.

Sherlock hangs up before Greg can think to ask if there's something wrong. He's left with Freefall observing him. She plays with her emergency box as her fellow officers communicate the unusual encounter with one another in the background-preparing to cash in on the arrest.

"He's something else," she says. "But you know that."

"Oh, do I ever," Greg agrees as he replaces her phone.

"I don't know if I envy you."

Greg laughs.

"If he keeps calling you while you're here, he's probably missing something."

When Greg frowns at the cryptic response, she straightens up and pushes the nicotine box away dismissively. "Sorry, I think aloud. My mouth moves and words come out, and they're sometimes stupid as your 'consulting detective' observed."

"Sorry for that." Greg genuinely is.

Freefall shrugs. "You might be his only friend, you know. The way he keeps tabs..."

"Nah, he's got a flatmate. They're inseparable at crime scenes. Sherlock likes to show off and I tend to let him."

She frowns as if doubting Greg, but then turns the subject over to asking about what Sherlock Holmes has dragged him away from. The invitation to follow through with this mad arrest goes unspoken. Freefall does recognize Lestrade as a fellow officer of the law and if he'd like, he could join the Lander Police Department in concluding the affair.

Greg explains that his wife is waiting at the bed and breakfast that William Leech owns. Freefall immediately approves of his holiday.

Apparently the Leech's are "good people."

A lot of people are, Greg agrees. And then some are simply just "great."

* * *

The game of spotting landmarks doesn't get easier on his third trip due to darkness. There is no moon and so Greg drives in a realm of headlights and highway. Everything else is a vacuum. He's tired and squirms often in his seat. He pulls over once to stretch and pick out the rare instances of light on the plain behind him. The mountains are shapeless and he knows they're only there by how they swallow the sky.

Somewhere, a killer is no longer free.

Will and Barta Leech had been puzzled by Greg's sudden return to town. They greet Greg anew at the house and their two sons, along with the other tenant and the girls from Florida have all arrived and gathered in the room with the bear rug. Greg suspects that they all know he had returned to Lander regarding some kind of favour for Scotland Yard, though it wouldn't be right for Greg to discuss the details. He navigates the subject until everyone moves on to gossip Greg is more willing to share in.

Vivian gives Greg the minimal attention required during the icebreaking, and he is not surprised when she calls it an early night. He waits an hour before calling it in himself. They've been warned about the early start. Greg doesn't think he'll have a problem with being ready to go. The bed and breakfast is becoming a little stifling.

It has nothing to do with the decor or the air.

The lawman leads a lonely life, Greg thinks when he climbs into bed.

* * *

The morning comes with a bustle of activity. There are shouts to family members, the dragging of something heavy on a wood floor and then the clatter of a kitchen coming to life. That is promptly followed by a faint hiss of cooking and the smell of bacon.

Greg needs bacon and it surprises him. Back home, breakfast is an afterthought.

Vivian drags herself from the bed and goes down the hall to use the toilet. The bed and breakfast has a shared toilet and Greg learns that the girls from Florida have claimed it as their territory. Greg's wife clearly knows some secret-girl password because she's admitted to the fort. Greg feels scruffy as he drags on yesterday's clothes just so he can have food now.

Barta Leech and a younger man who resembles her are in the kitchen. She sings a hello and points him to an empty seat next to one of the guys from the night before. Todd? Greg decides to let her use his name in passing, and yes, it is indeed Todd.

Todd's a bus driver from Cheyenne, and the least experienced with horses if Greg recalls last night's festivities correctly. Todd's stalked the Leech family blog and tour site for years before saving enough to participate. The way Barta dotes over Todd, Greg thinks she'll adopt him.

Her son is...Chet, Greg thinks. Chet piles pancakes onto the table and they're bigger, fatter things than they have any right to be. Barta also has a son named Gregory, which is easy enough to remember. It's just telling which boy is which that's hard.

"We did a bit of homework," Chet is saying, and Greg blinks when he realizes that he's supposed to be paying attention. Todd is snickering as if he already knows where this will go.

"Oh yeah?" Greg pushes, when he doesn't have his mouth full.

Barta is blushing when she whispers conspiratorially, "We imported a bit of...spotted dick. Thought we'd try it out on the ride."

Chet is beaming and Todd loses some of his coffee. Greg doesn't get it, but toasts his orange juice at the jest anyway. Spotted dick is a good dessert. Perhaps they make it differently here.

* * *

He's dressing for real when he gets the joke. It's also the first time he sees Vivian after her escape from the Florida women.

"I think the Americans find our name for steamed pudding a bit offensive," he says as he laces his boots.

She hums in interest, but is far more focused on which of her things will stay in their room and what will come riding with her. She has not packed light like her husband.

It's a perfect time for Greg to tell her that she looks fantastic. He notices the moment but it passes before he can capitalize on it. Vivian interrupts the chance when she says, "you haven't picked out a horse, yet."

She's far too subtle for Greg to pick up whether or not the observation is also an accusation.

"Right then. Let's go pick me a horse."

* * *

Greg's horse is named Aerosmith. He's a mottled-steel grey Spanish and Mustang cross. He's beautiful and strong. Greg's horse is also a mean one.

"Oh, not just anyone gets to ride Aerosmith," Will warns. "You said you've handled horses before?"

It's a setup. Greg recognizes when he's being baited. He sees Will steal a glance at his wife and understands that this had been planned. He's game for it.

"I think Aerosmith and I could come to some kind of agreement," he says.

The stables smell like home and there's comfort in knowing that halfway around the world there are stables organized like the ones Greg used to work in. They make him feel nostalgic, and through that nostalgia he could be reminded of all of the years spent missing this. Vivian's eyes are on him and he hears her laugh when Aerosmith veers left instead of right. He chides his horse and coaxes it and is satisfied with his gelding's steady submission. _That_ makes him feel young again.

He turns to grin at his wife and catches her staring. She looks away demurely and Greg pats Aerosmith's neck teamingly. "Women..."

* * *

They regroup at lunch for a final meal of sandwiches. A large map is laid out on the table and Will discusses the proposed route and all dangers that could be encountered. Greg's impressed with the thoroughness of the Leech family. They do this for a living, and they've done it a long time.

The strengths and weaknesses of everyone present is accounted for. Todd has the least experience with horses and poses the greatest risk from horse-related injuries. William Leech points this out amicably without causing any shame or disgrace to be interpreted by Todd. It tells everyone else to look out for the man, and conveys to the busdriver that he is worthy of that attention and care.

With the exception of one of the Florida girls and Vivian, everyone present also has a respectable level of first aid or survival training. This will enable the riders to extend beyond certain boundaries that Will usually feels comfortable with traversing.

The Leech's lay out a list of required items and has everyone check their kit to ensure those things are present. Then, the Jack Daniels comes out for a commemorative toast.

"Let's make it a good one, yeah?"

The Leech's son Chet will stay at home to care for the remaining horses and the bed and breakfast. William, his wife and his youngest (Gregory) will lead the campaign. There's Todd and the girls-Laura and Lisa. And of course, Greg and his wife. They ride forth with the sky clear and a breeze stirring. Greg is not used to riding with so much gear, though Aerosmith seems acclimated to the weight.

They tackle the hills for most of the afternoon, slowly losing sight of the highway and the Leech's home around a bend. Todd is giddy with enthusiasm and its contagious. Greg learns that Laura is an equestrian rider like Vivian, and coaxes her to ask after his wife's brief Olympic run. In turn, he suspects that Vivian has set the red-headed Lisa on him. Lisa aspires to be a federal agent and her questions are impressively thought out. They spend several hours discussing the differences between the American and the English judicial system.

As the sky slowly starts to change hues, Barta tells them about the specific history of this area. With the awareness of having crossed a spot from a pre-historic battle, they set down for camp. William proposes a contest to see which pair could prepare their tent the quickest.

Obviously, the Leech elders triumph. Greg tries to communicate with Vivian about how to push the pole into the tarp (she pulls, it comes apart) and she snaps at him that _he's_ not the one who is listening, when clearly it is the other way around. In the end, they take third to Todd and Gregory, and narrowly defeat the Florida girls who are pleased with their part in the contest even though they are last. He swallows down an unexpected bitterness, uncertain of where it has come from. The afternoon had been great. Greg knows that if he had been setting the tent up alone, he would have been second. The thought catches him. He's upset over a tent race.

It's a team exercise, he tells himself silently. He doesn't feel better knowing that Vivian is just as bitter about it.

The food by the campfire is good and the night casts eerie shadows around them. As they slowly appear, the stars are brilliant. With no unnatural light, the milky way can be seen and a few shooting stars catch their attention-often from the corner of their eyes.

Greg doesn't believe in making wishes, but if he did he would take all of the ache and the burden in his life and hollow it out. He knows he should be in awe of this evening. He should be sitting with his wife close and his superstitions afraid of the natural black closing in around their little fire. But perhaps Greg's seen too much darkness in London. His wife close to him does not bring him comfort. He can see no sign from her that she needs to be near him tonight, either.

It's as if they _are _estranged-sharing only Wyoming air.

He doesn't know why he does it now but Greg tells her that she looks fantastic. It could be true, with the fire on her face and in her eyes, while the shadows framing her and the folds of her clothes are becoming one with the night. She is a texture of real and unknown-flickering skin and hair with a glassy stare and nothingness encroaching at her corners. He makes himself impressed by the image. They'll make this work.

She smiles at him, but it's the same smile he's making. Forced.

That night they share their tiny tent, but little else.

* * *

"We forgot the spotted dick last night!" Berta laments over the morning fire. To set things right, she serves it for breakfast.

The fact that it's Betty Crocker's Spotted Dick makes everyone chuffed and Vivian rolls her eyes. Greg finds that with each morning, his unshaven face feels more and more alien. How many days until his friends at the Yard would fail to recognize him, he wonders.

Aerosmith is eager when they start and Greg takes a shift with Todd. The man is roughly Greg's age but quick to adapt to his new situation. He talks to his horse a lot, and talks to Greg too. The man has a lot of stories about his clients on the bus. Greg doesn't think that Todd has anyone particularly special in his life, and also finds that Todd probably doesn't want anyone. The man apparently reads people very well, though he does it so conscientiously that Greg cannot even compare him to anyone else so astute-like Sherlock. Todd talks about his feelings but holds his comments on everyone else with a strict code of political correctness. He may notice Greg's distance from his wife, but Todd will never, ever bring it up.

Greg likes Todd.

The sky is open and as the afternoon wears on they find traces of the wild horses they seek.

"We'll follow the ridge, and then we'll probably find them in Gusser's Valley," Will explains. "We're doing really good for time, though the weather might change tonight."

The changes in the clime are subtle around the company, with clouds building up more drastically far off in the distance. They find a hill with a lake in Gusser's Valley. The water is a mirror and it reflects the black underside of a storm that's developing. Now and again, sheet lightning illuminates the hidden recesses of the cloud. It's a wall that is threatening, but it is far away. Sometimes Greg thinks he can hear thunder.

On the other side of the lake, under the shadow of the untame sky are untamed horses. Mustangs are gathering, black dots to Greg's naked eye. The group of riders stand and pass around a set of binoculars while Mrs. Leech and her son watch the horses drink.

"We can chase them tomorrow, it'll be too dark soon," informs William.

The girls want to race with the tents again, so once more William pulls out his stopwatch and offers to have himself and his wife wait one full minute before they begin. Greg is aware that Vivian is tense at the suggestion of repeating the task.

He shifts beside her.

"If you want to have at it..." she murmurs, dismissively.

Greg knows that his response here is an important one. He's seen it in victims and witnesses, and hates how the recognition of it shows up here. He chooses his words carefully, even as William shouts "GO!"

"Even if it takes a full hour, I would rather set this up with you, than by myself."

She looks at him and says nothing. Something is being decided and Greg doesn't know what it is.

"Please?" he asks. "We can lose this race together."

She drops her eyes and snorts. "Okay. I'll put the poles together."

"I'll set the tarp down."

They come in last but it doesn't take an hour. Greg also thinks their tent looks the nicest. Well...after William and Barta Leech's tent, of course.

That night the fire burns later, with the sky flickering around them in purple and orange-pink moments of illumination. William declares the party safe from any of the storm. It is apparently going eastwards though Greg has to take their guide's word for it. He watches the electrical storm far later into the night than he supposes he should, enchanted by the stillness of the plains around them. The horses are quieter and there are none of the coyotes from the previous evening. Even the wildness of the unseen shadow-world seems to be holding its breath for something.

Greg doesn't know what he's waiting for out here, alone with the remnants of the fire at his back. If he could pose a question to the night, he imagines it may answer back in a deep, self-certain baritone. There would be no face, and yet the answer would be absolute and probably not anything Greg Lestrade wishes to know.

He refuses to ask a question. Without querying anything, Greg thinks of murders in this place and of killers still free and those who are never going to be caught. He thinks about how efficiently his vacation had been handed to him, and about phone calls that find Greg when and where they shouldn't. He thinks of Sherlock Holmes without a John Watson and cannot imagine it. The grumble of thunder resonates across a long distance and Greg doesn't believe in coincidences when he hears it.

God, he's weird when he's tired.

He climbs into the tent and inadvertently wakes Vivian.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"Shhh," she mutters. Then she curls into him and says something about the cold. Greg doesn't feel the drop in the temperature, but he will never argue with his wife on that subject. He folds over her like a blanket and marvels at the naturalness of it.

Of course it should feel natural. This is his wife. _His _wife. And his horse is resting by a perfect lake and he is the wildman of the frontier that he used to pretend to be as a boy. Everything is perfect, and Greg sleeps on that.

* * *

Everything is still perfect when Vivian untangles herself from Greg some hours later. He snuffles awake with a numb arm, and she kisses his nose and says she needs to pee. He shifts to help her escape him, and then says something about wishing her luck. She laughs and pushes a tarp away and light sneaks in, pale. He expects her back, but then hears a scrape of familiar tin utensils and one of the Leech clan. If Vivian gets waylaid by the coffee or by feeding the horses, he can excuse her. The sleeping bags are treacherously warm and Greg doesn't think it's worth fighting the temptation to stay here. He has both his and her blankets now, all to himself. He sleeps.

He gets up. He puts on his jeans and then his shirt. He puts on his boots and then laces them, careful not to step on Vivian's clothing or their blankets. With his new hat in hand Greg climbs out of the little tent and onto the Wyoming plain where there is a crime scene. Lestrade should be surprised by the body, but he's not. Sherlock Holmes lies on the ground with his black jacket pooling around him, the collar open to reveal a shredded throat. It looks as if piano wire has been wrapped tightly around the consulting detective's neck and then tightened. Sherlock's eyes are open and the whites are the same colour as the sky.

Across from Lestrade stands John. The army doctor, like Lestrade, looks at the body, and when the detective inspector raises his eyes it takes a moment before John Watson meets them. John's holding a broken violin. The strings have been pulled loose and fray out like stray hairs. John's hands are the same as the bottom half of his jumper-smeared and bloody.

The air is pregnant with anticipation. Not a sound is heard. While the pearl white sky above them harbours no storm clouds, it certainly feels as if the atmosphere will break with a shattering of chords. Lestrade doesn't know if it will be himself or John Watson who breaks it. A confession or an accusation is about to happen. They both know who put Sherlock there.

"Oh please," growls a voice from the ground. Lestrade snaps his attention to the body, still lying dead though the head has turned grotesquely to stare at the detective inspector. The lips move but no other features naturalize them by animating . "John couldn't possibly have killed me. Don't be an idiot."

John seems unbothered by the voice from the corpse. The blogger raises an eyebrow and then passes the rest of the gaze on to Lestrade. Without presumptions, that look seems to ask the detective inspector about who _did _kill Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade doesn't know. Or, he knows he doesn't want the answer. He swallows, finding it hard to talk all of a sudden. "Well?"

He's asking the corpse. He's asking the corpse for an answer. Would it not be so easy, to just ask the dead?

Sherlock Holmes does. And Sherlock Holmes answers. "You already know, Detective Inspector."

Greg wakes up to the sound of tin clanging into tin. "Greeeeeeeeg!"

He blinks and rolls over and finds his one exposed arm is cold. There are camp noises, including the crackle of fire and the scrape of utensils signifying breakfast. He's hungry.

It's strange, putting his jeans and his shirt on for a second time this morning. He is relieved to find the sky blue when he exits his tent, and others hanging around who have likely never been to a genuine crime scene. They greet him at the fire.

"You slept late," Todd says.

Greg gratefully takes some coffee from a blue camp cup. He is consoled from learning that both Laura and Lisa are still apparently sleeping. "Had a strange dream."

"Oh?" Vivian teases. "Was I in it?"

Greg hesitates, before finally saying, "Yes. I rather think you were."

* * *

They see Mustangs, real mustangs descendant from sixteenth century Spanish horses. Greg's tour-group rides alongside the wild horses and he tries to pick out the ones Barta claims to know from her family's repeated visits.

There are mountain ranges and scrub and wild horses. Greg knows the names of eight different kinds of wild flowers. A mountain lion makes an appearance, sitting and watching the band of horses and yet finding them too much work to stalk and hunt. This sighting truly excites their hosts. Todd gets a pretty impressive video of the beast. Vivian laughs often. She takes several pictures of Greg with her phone.

Greg gets Gregory to shoot a picture of him and his wife together.

The remainder of the trip occurs with few mishaps. They meet an aboriginal friend of the Leech's who has a teepee set up. The group shares a lunch of canned beans under it. It's then their final night camping, and Vivian suggests that she and Greg test out the limits of how well sound carries.

"You'll be the loud one," Greg warns, cheekily.

Vivian disagrees.

The next morning's campfire is awkward and Greg doesn't know if it's because he's paranoid or not. Vivian is just as self-conscious, which is alright. Greg hadn't been the loud one, after all. Vivian still disagrees.

It only starts to rain as the highway comes back into view.

"Like London?" Greg is asked.

"Not like London," Greg answers.

Vivian calls it a drizzle. Barely spitting. A sprinkle.

The men put the horses away while the women reconquer the bed and breakfast's only washroom and shower.

* * *

Greg has given up on having access to the shower anytime before supper, so he's sharing a round of beers with the guys when Chet walks in. In one hand, Chet is holding a handheld game system. In the other, a couple pages of printed paper.

The kid asks his dad how the trip had been, and Greg lazily recognizes the inattention that's paid to the answer. This is just expected behaviour-to ask and not to be intimately interested at all. Greg will probably get the same from his own kids. It's unexpectedly charming.

After nodding at most of the right points, Chet eventually shuts down the explanation when he interrupts his father with, "Oh, I forgot. Mr. Lestrade, these came in for you. Emailed to dad's website..."

Message delivered, Chet walks out of the room. William Leech shrugs and turns back to Todd to describe an aspect of the story as if his son had not just walked away. Greg looks at the paperwork and rolls his eyes.

_Lestrade. Here is an itemized list of products or items attainable in the United States. Bring what you can find back with you. As stated, you will be reimbursed for all costs. If you require any assistance in getting the asterisked items across Customs, please call the number at the bottom. SH_

The list goes on for four pages and includes everything from Bic pens in specific colours, to fireworks of a particular brand. There are cigarettes, paper and envelopes (also brand-specific), fluorescent light bulbs, rubbing alcohol, Kool-aid, Zip-lock bags (in every size imaginable) and a particular photo frame that is of an unconventional dimension and weight, that can only be bought in California.

Helpful, thinks Greg. At least there's a "please" included...

Because it's too strange not to, Greg passes the list off to his new mates and asks them in half-seriousness if they have anything like that around the house. By the time the showers are free, Greg's filled the men in on the strangeness of Sherlock Holmes. He's also secured himself some Bic pens and a small package of printing paper that fit Sherlock's requirements.

This is _all _he's going to do for the man, because Sherlock had promised not to contact him and even an email to his host breaks that promise. Greg certainly does _not _owe the consulting detective a side-trip to California for some kind of picture frame.

That evening, he's still shaking his head over the audacity of it all. He's a cop. He can't smuggle fireworks into London. Greg picks up his phone and turns it on expecting an overwhelming response. He's almost pleasantly surprised to find seventy-nine messages-only three more new ones.

One is from Anderson, inviting Greg to an exhibit. It's followed closely by an apology, the invite having been sent to the wrong number. The second is Sally Donovan. _Hope your trips good. Don't worry about us. Broke your stapler. Not replacing it bc you bought a cheap 1. :)_

Not a single text from Sherlock.

Greg sighs, deciding that Sherlock's potentially earned himself a cowboy hat. It'll go good with that cow skull-thing in 221B.

* * *

They exchange contact information with everyone they've met, aware that they'll keep in touch for a month and then maybe once a year after that. Greg hopes to hear from Lisa regarding her application to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He judges her to be good cop material.

The rain follows them back to the airport, though Wyoming does not have rain like London has rain. Greg pulls over to let Vivian take pictures of the sky when it clears up. If her phone's panorama feature works, she'll have remarkable photographs.

Vivian buys a thriller from the airport and Greg ends up reading it when she gets bored. It's delightfully unrealistic. A cop ends up embroiled in a mad criminal's game of cat-and-mouse, and the protagonist ends up saving the President, as well as his love interest by faking his death and working behind the scenes before the big reveal.

"So was it good?" Vivian yawns, waking at the moment Greg closes the book for the final time.

"You'd have hated it," he supplies.

"Did I overhear the pilot say that it's raining in London, or was that just me dreaming?" she asks.

"You're British. What do you think?"

It's raining in London.

* * *

Greg turns his phone on while Vivian talks to a cab driver outside of Heathrow. Greg can't help but bend over to peer at the driver before she gets in. Who passes through London unseen? he thinks, unbidden.

Right. London. Serial killing cab drivers. It's so good to be home.

Almost immediately, his phone starts to ring.

Greg gives his wife a look, and he's pleased that she returns it with the same sardonic expression. They're back at home and she doesn't hold him responsible for life trying to resume it's course. He answers it and says, "It's amazing how well you time it. What do you want Sherlock?"

"Uh, Greg?" It's not Sherlock.

Climbing into the cab after his wife, Greg picks out the voice. "Sorry, thought you were someone else. What can I do for you, Tobias?"

Vivian watches him and cocks her head. She mouths 'Gregson?' and Greg nods. Tobias is not a close friend from work, being more of a rival. Greg respects the detective inspector to a point but can't imagine what would have him calling unless something big were up.

"I need a favour."

Vivian keeps her sigh to herself, but Greg decides resolutely that his remaining two days of holiday are still his. He doesn't care if Tobias needs Sherlock's help or if there's a case that's going to require Lestrade's experiences. He wants to go home, and home is not his cluttered office in New Scotland Yard with the broken stapler.

"Let's hear it, though I'm still on holiday until Wednesday."

Tobias Gregson hesitates, before asking, "How good are you with horses on such short notice?"

* * *

Lestrade's horse is named Chestnut and she is much more subdued than Aerosmith.

It's raining with a vengeance and Lestrade sits in a traditional mounted police uniform that is a size too big for him. Water plinks off of his helmet and streams into his eyes and ends up feeling strange when it slides across his clean-shaven face. He's filling in the line for Chestnut's regular officer (stomach flu) and it's not everyday that the Metropolitan Mounted Police get to parade by the Queen.

The officers and their horses linger miserably at the front of the parade-grounds waiting for the call to formation. Chestnut knows the routine and Lestrade has few doubts about his responsibilities in the role. Prior to his holiday, it had been years since he'd properly handled horses. Had homicide not been so attractive at the beginning, Lestrade is certain he may have ended up working with these men and women instead.

People gather along the cordoned sidewalks, still making an effort despite the rain. Londoners, Lestrade identifies with respect. It is that keep calm and trod on attitude. A little rain (or a lot) wouldn't keep Lestrade's city from shutting down. Everyone would just gather to grumble and be pitiful together.

Lestrade finds his attention drawn to a particular figure maneuvering through the throng of sitting, wet pedestrians. It's hard to miss Sherlock Holmes when he's so tall and seems to have missed the memo about how depressed everyone is supposed to be. He's the only person without an umbrella, and the man doesn't seem to notice or care.

Lestrade shifts and Chestnut obeys, inching with side steps to bring them alongside the curb. Sherlock steps lithely over the barrier that's supposed to keep him out. Lestrade ignores the invasion.

"Sherlock," he greets instead. "I left some things in the care of Mrs. Hudson, since neither you nor John were home this morning."

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "I spent the night under a bridge. And John's busy."

"A bridge?!" Lestrade cries. "Sherlock..."

"Oh please," the consulting detective chides. "I was conducting surveillance. And it didn't rain in Richmond until nine this morning. And if I wanted a lecture, I would go to Mrs. Hudson first."

Not John first, Lestrade wonders. Shaking his head, he asks, "What brings you here, then?"

Sherlock Holmes straightens. "I need access to the cold cases in Scotland Yard."

Lestrade absently pats Chestnut and notes that Sherlock is asking. Or, this as as close to asking as Sherlock-'please-the-security-at-Scotland-Yard-is- a-joke' will get.

"I'm on parade right now," Lestrade says. He frowns when he catches himself say it like it is an apology.

"Pft," Sherlock scoffs. "The parade won't last more than an hour. I'll meet you in two."

Lestrade squints over Sherlock's shoulder as if he could find the absent John Watson and have an ally with a comparable degree of sanity. He says with some force, "I'm still on holiday. This seems to be something you _don't _understand, Sherlock."

Sherlock draws his mouth into a tight line. "I may have been...excessive in my contact with you over the last week."

The admission stops Lestrade from thinking. Or perhaps, it reboots the process. This may be as close to an apology as Sherlock Holmes gets and Lestrade is completely certain that there's more to this than just the consulting detective apologizing for texts and emails and phone calls. He's not sure what to make of it.

And then, Lestrade does. Greg Lestrade suddenly gets it and he knows what to do with it. It is an incredibly unexpected sensation.

He leans back on Chestnut and observes, "John has a new girlfriend and they're pretty serious. More serious than his previous girlfriends."

Sherlock scrunches his face and then says, "I don't see what that has to do with anything. I need your access to the cold cases."

Ignoring Sherlock, but not coldly, Lestrade continues. "You're threatened by John's relationship and you've reacted badly so he doesn't spend any time at the flat anymore. It doesn't improve on the condition and now you're bored and casting out for things to do."

This explains John's absence on their last case together, and explains the 'excessiveness' of Sherlock's contact with Greg. It explains why the other man looked up cold cases on the internet in the neighborhood of where Greg had been vacationing.

"Sherlock..." and oh, Greg sounds like Mrs. Hudson there.

What am I to do with you? Lestrade thinks. His critical eye doesn't see any lingering signs of drug use, which is good. Sleeping under a bridge is bad enough but...

Sherlock's expression darkens when Lestrade starts cataloguing him, no doubt assuming that drugs are the first place Lestrade will start worrying after. The role reversal between them is ludicrously ironic and perhaps a great deal overdue, but Lestrade isn't feeling pleasure at the transformation.

Greg sighs and leans forward, keeping Chestnut from wandering. "What would you do without me, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective's attention snaps up and those eyes narrow, sharp in the shelter of that ridiculous hair. And then, as if remembering when he himself had said those words, a brief flicker of a grin surfaces. It's a grim admittance, if anything, and replaced by something hard almost immediately.

Ahead, there is a shriek of a whistle. The parade is about to begin.

Lestrade pats his horse and says, "Allow me to lay out the scene, Sherlock. I'm on holiday, despite being in a parade line for the Queen. I'm on a horse in a traditional uniform and my wife is three corners up the street and she finds me in this get-up attractive. So after the parade, in two hours, I've got intentions of being rather busy-how did you put it?-'rekindling' things with her. I've got no interest in spending today or tonight at The Yard."

Before Sherlock can counter, Lestrade adds, "I suggest you call John and tell him you think his new girlfriend is nice. _Even _if it's a lie. And don't be an arse about it. I figure John is too clever to believe you but he'll understand you're making an effort. And Sherlock, you _have _to make an effort. If it all goes to hell, I'd be willing to meet you in my office at eleven tomorrow morning."

Sherlock is a statue as he considers. "Nine," he says eventually.

"Ten," Greg reasons, hoping fervently that Sherlock doesn't expect it all to go to hell so readily.

"Fine," Sherlock pouts, turning to look away at something more interesting. "You didn't get me the items on my list, did you?"

"I did you one better and got you a cowboy hat," Lestrade answers.

Chestnut takes this opportunity to show initiative and pulls them into line. Lestrade tightens his posture and doesn't look back at Sherlock Holmes. He is on a horse, after all. It's not a sunset, but he rides off anyways.


End file.
